


Traceless

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [14]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fear, Gen, It's Getting Dark Now Guys But The Story Is Going To Hopefully Improve, It's Not A Main Character Who Spits Up The Blood, Kidnapping, Mother-Son Relationship, So Go Gently Into This Story, There Is A Mention of A Character Spitting Up Blood, Thorin Trying To Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Moldavite is a moss-coloured stone which awakens the intelligence of the heart and disconnects unhealthy attachments.<br/>The triskellion is a Celtic symbol, though its name comes from a Greek term meaning 'three-legged'. It is a symbol of competition and male progress.<br/>To find out more about the triskellion, go directly to whats-your-sign.com which was where I got my info ;)</p></blockquote>





	Traceless

He's only just closed his eyes when he feels his shoulder being shaken. He groans and rolls over, far away as he can from his namadith, but she comes around the side of his bed and takes the covers off him. He groans again, louder and opens a bleary eye to stare resentfully at the woman who has awoken him from the edge of sleep. "This had _better_ be important, little sister!"

"A little boy got stolen."

"That is important!" Thorin sits up and gets out of the bed, towering over her. She is already dressed, in a simple tunic and breeches, not bothering with the gowns she usually wears in Royal Court. "When was this?"

"His mother doesn't know. She went to check on him after soothing his baby sister off to sleep and found him gone. She searched _all_ over her house for the lad, but he was nowhere to be seen." She looks up at him, curiosity shining in her own bright blue eyes. "Does this have to do with her letter?"

"No. I hope. Maybe he simply woke up, went outside and is wandering around in the garden. How old is he?"

"His name is Bâqil." Dís says. "He's 12 years old, a toddler. Hurry up and put _clothes_ on, brother, you can't go tottering over to her wearing your nightshirt!"

"I don't _totter._ " Thorin grumbles, but he wrestles into a pair of trousers and throws a coat over his nightshirt to hide it. "Where is she? _Who_ is she?"

"Her name is Ëkna," Dís answers, grabbing his arm and leading him through the maze of corridors to the Court Room. "She was the one whose husband.."

Thorin takes a deep breath. He hadn't found the remains but he had seen them and they had left him pale and sweating for the best part of the day. He remembers her now, a woman with hair the colour of honey, who had large violet eyes. He can even remember the boy now, a quiet little lad with his mother's eyes and chestnut-brown hair. He also remembers hearing about her giving birth to a daughter, though he can't remember the baby girl's name.  
The baby girl is asleep in her mother's arms when they get to Ëkna. The dwarrowdam is standing restlessly, rocking her babe. She stares over at them and Thorin notices that her hand is clenched tightly over something.

"Have you sent anyone to search for Bâqil?" Thorin whispers to Dís.

"Of course I have. One of the guardsmen woke me and I told him to take his men and search Ered Luin."

"Good." Thorin steps closer to the pale-faced woman. "Missus Ëkna?"

"Somebody _took_ my _son_." Ëkna mutters. She is looking at her baby now, staring at the tiny one's peacefully sleeping face. "Somebody _stole_ him. Mahal, what if-?" A shudder runs through her and she holds her daughter closer.

Thorin notices a tear sliding down her right cheek and gently squeezes her shoulder."How do you know somebody stole him, Missus Ëkna? Was there a note?"

She held out her hand. Within it glinted a deep, dull green stone. "Moldavite triskelion. I found this _evil_ stone on his pillow. _They_ are not known as the Clan of Assassins for nothing, Thorin. But why do they have _my_ son?"

_'Because they are hunting,"_ Thorin thought, taking the spiralled gem. _'And they've got the_ wrong _son.'_

* * *

 

 Óin still means it. He's really really not supposed to meet Fóli, but if he goes out and comes back before his brother comes home, what harm could possibly come? As he weaves through the streets, he notices there seems to be an unnatural number of guardsmen skulking about. He can't help but feel curious about them. Why so many? Why so early? For pickpockets and drunkards, crimes usually occur in the afternoon, not early morning when people aren't doing very much. He gets a few surprised looks but to most of the guardsmen he's known as Dwalin's little cousin (or 'babby cuz' to Mister Lëke) and so, he doesn't raise alarm.  
He himself is _very_ alarmed when a hand suddenly grabs his shoulder. He jumps and gives such a shriek of surprise that five guardsmen run over only to stop upon seeing the idiot behind him. He turns, his heart racing and stares up at this stranger. Well, he isn't _really_ a stranger. He knows him.

Sort of.

After Uncle Fundin, King Thrór, Lord Grór, Lord Náin and Grandfather died and Thráin went missing, Da had been Prince Thorin's eldest living relative, the only one deemed fit to help him rule. Menfolk chose good family friends, picked a lottery but for the Durins, at least, the eldest relative was deemed to have most experience and it was he who was chosen to aid the member of royalty if he or she was below the age of 72.

_'Fecking stupid.'_ Da had muttered crossly. _'I don't even need to do anything, just watch him. He knows_ exactly _what to do already! Anyway, Fundin was meant to be the one for this job._ He _was the heir, not me.'_

As the years passed on, it hadn't stopped him from visiting the prince. It had confused him at first and one day he asked why.

_'It's very hard to feel you're alone, little ruby. It might seem daft, but even important people need someone to stay around them.'_

But even though he knows who Thorin is, he knows what he is and has a rough idea of how they are related, he doesn't understand why he's here. Shouldn't he be elsewhere?

"I didn't mean to startle you. Where is your brother?"

"In the Halls of Healing."

Prince Thorin nods. His thick dark brows furrow, but he doesn't comment. "Your cousins?"

"Well, Balin is probably doing his teaching right now. I don't know about Dwalin, I've got one third cousin in the Iron Hills, another third cousin somewhere in Ered Luin and you're my third cousin, likely once removed, and you're here!"

He expects Prince Thorin to scowl at him for being "cheeky", but instead he half-smiles. "Once removed? I'm not so old yet! Come, it's a cold morning."

Glóin thinks about refusing, but something tells him that the word _'no'_ is not one the prince takes notice of being told. He doesn't know why he's come for him. Fundin's sons are the ones he's closest to. "Prince? Why are you here? And why are there so many guards?"

Thorin clears his throat. "I'd rather not discuss certain things in the streets. But something terrible has happened and I need extra precautions so it doesn't happen again."

"But what's happened?" Glóin asks.

"When we get inside, I'll tell you."

"Swear?"

"Hold out your pinky finger." Thorin says solemnly. He links his thicker pinky with that of Glóin's thinner one and says, "I vow to tell you _all_ you need to know once we are in privacy. Better?"

He can't help smiling. Initiating a "pinky promise" is exactly what Óin does. "Yes, it's better."

* * *

 

It is quite easy to tell how he is related to Balin and Dwalin. They're similar. He and Dwalin share the same stance, the same thoughts. He feels like he is with family when he is with Balin, and Dwalin too. But he never quite managed to get acquainted with Gróin's sons. He knows their names, he knows which one is oldest, he knows the eldest is in training to become a healer. His familiarity with them is based upon facts. It was never anything personal. He never intentionally decided to avoid them or forget them, it simply happened.

_'You are the head of a large family and the ruler of many people,'_ Gróin had said once. _'As long as you give a damn about my boys and as long as they give a damn about you, what's it matter how much time you spend together? You're still kin.'_

He wishes he could have Gróin back for the day so he can explain to his fiery little son what's going on. And give him an idea what to do about the Assassins. He bites his lip as he thinks hard. He notices Glóin nibbling his lip and tries to pull himself together.

"This is in confidence," Thorin says seriously. "I don't want people panicking." He takes a deep breath and continues quickly. "A very little boy was taken from his amad last night. We know that the group who took him are dangerous people."

"How do you know it's a group?"

"The mother found their symbol. Usually these people don't take people. They kill them on the spot, only stealing people for vengeance purposes." Thorin pauses. His cousin looks pale. He squeezes his shoulders gently. "The boy is alive still. They won't harm him. They will simply hold onto him until they find who they are looking for."

"How do you know they won't hurt him?"

"Because they haven't sent his locks."

Glóin goes even whiter. "But who are they looking for?"

Thorin pauses for a while and shakes his head. "I don't know. But they are a dangerous clan. I ask of you to not go anywhere alone. Not until we find these people. I don't want you to be frightened, but I don't want to keep secrets from you, either. You are safe as long as you are with _someone_. An adult you trust who can fight for you."

_"I_ can fight."

Thorin lets his eyes flicker to the faint white scar through his cousin's brow. A reminder of a long ago battle. _'Yes,'_ he thinks sadly. _'You can fight.'_ He smooths back the vibrant red locks and carefully traces the little line. Glóin flinches at first, but quickly adapts to the touch.

"Prince?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are _your_ scars?"

"On my heart." Thorin answers, not completely joking. In fact, now he thinks upon it and knows it is mostly true. Frerin, Grandfather, Grandmamma, Amad, Adad, Fundin...they all left their marks.

His expression has betrayed him. Why else does his young kinsman place his little hand upon his chest over his heart as if trying to lift the scars?

"My adad had a scarred heart too."

Thorin closes his hand over the young one's. "No. Your adad's heart was irreparable. Half of it was destroyed the day your uncle died."

"And the other half when..."

"No. The heart heals over time, much like the soul. I'm sure the juzral had a little chat about souls with you not so long ago. The heart is the strongest part of you. It will heal one day. One day you will be able to think of him and her without feeling so miserable."

"How do you kn-" There's an immediate halt and the quizzical dark eyes glance down quickly.

"Experience." Thorin answers. "I can think of my little brother. I can think of my grandparents. I remember _them_ , not their ends or sorrows."

"But it's hard."

Thorin finds his hands and holds them. "I know. But you'll _always_ have people to help you."

"Do you mean it?"

Thorin holds up his pinky finger and is rewarded with a laugh. "All scars fade. They don't always go quickly, nor painlessly, but they will go."

"I was thinking.. This might sound stupid, but.. Do people Fade for their parents? "

"It isn't a _stupid_ question. No, I can't say I've heard of this happening." Thorin gently rebraids a spectacularly untidy plait. "No one will part you and your gêmadad, I promise you. You'll always have each other." He means it. The Assassins have parted too many siblings.

* * *

She knows the letter was received. The Eastern doves are trained to not return unless their burdens have been relieved. Perhaps they have died. Isn't it cold in the North? In the East every summer is warmer than the last. She imagines her youngest child shivering in the cold, bitter winters, imagines the children burrowing close to their strong father who had returned to stone nearly four months ago. Her eldest and his children will be in the North soon. She coughs, a hacking cough that fills her lungs with weighty air and grimaces to feel blood filling her mouth again. Soon she will be joining the stone too and she will soon be able to see the one she had driven away. She brings out another handkerchief and spits the blood into the pale silk. It won't be long for her. 

Maybe in death, she might receive the forgiveness she so desperately craves.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Moldavite is a moss-coloured stone which awakens the intelligence of the heart and disconnects unhealthy attachments.  
> The triskellion is a Celtic symbol, though its name comes from a Greek term meaning 'three-legged'. It is a symbol of competition and male progress.  
> To find out more about the triskellion, go directly to whats-your-sign.com which was where I got my info ;)


End file.
